


Retrograde

by queenowl



Series: Bydue [7]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Drama, Family, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, There's hints of Byleth/Dedue but it's really not the focus, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21693706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenowl/pseuds/queenowl
Summary: He wakes up in a refugee camp and cannot remember his name. All he has are dreams of a green-haired girl and knowledge that tells him nothing of the man he was before.But something in the back of his mind tells him that he is forgetting something important. Something he cannot afford to. If only he could grasp that memory in hand...
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert & Dedue Molinaro, Dedue Molinaro & Original Character(s), Dedue Molinaro/My Unit | Byleth, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro, Flayn & Dedue Molinaro, Mercedes von Matritz & Dedue Molinaro
Series: Bydue [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458580
Comments: 34
Kudos: 51





	1. First Year

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the time skip if Dedue's paralogue is completed.

**I. FIRST SPRING**

His heart stirs to the steady sound of drums and spring rain. The drums have a strange sense of familiarity that he cannot place, but what truly surprises him is a sense of fear. When he tries to sit up, to open his eyes, to do anything at all, his body... his legs... it is as if they are not his own. They do not respond to his commands, and not only that but there is a dull throb of pain that he suspects is only dull because of a healer's skillful touch.

He can only wonder at his state.  
  
His eyes are unceremoniously pried open, one after the other, a light of unknown source shined into them. "His brain is still alive, I can tell you that." He tries to focus in the small moment that they are open, but all too quickly, his lids shut. "Abrasions on his wrists. Right arm, broken. _Both_ legs, broken... and judging by the bruising on his chest, I wouldn't be surprised if a few of his ribs were..." The voice trails off, then speaks again softly. "I was in the war tent when I heard the report, but I still do not understand why the khan was so determined to rescue him. As is, our people are so few. To send them out to save just one man..." There is wonder in the voice. "Just who is he? A... A friend?"

Another voice, grimmer. "I'm not sure myself. I know that The Khan owed him some kind of life debt but she wouldn't say much more than that."

"I see... I wonder what happened to him..."

"He's been tortured."

"B-by whom? Who would do such a thing? A-and to this extent... It's just so..."

"Who else but those imperial _snakes!_ I told Khan Lasorin we couldn't trust them any more than we could those presumptuous Faerghus' envoys who dared ask us for support in THEIR war. I wonder, will she believe me now?"

Lying in the bed and barely listening, he tries to gather strength to alert them that he is aware of them, but his body simply feels too weak to cooperate. He is uncertain if he is moving at all, as much as he is trying to.

"Hush. You'll aggravate the patient." There is silence, then a sigh. "With this fever, I'm not sure if he's stabilized enough to--" The voice stops speaking. "Fetch my kit, Arsène."  
  
"But you just said--"  
  
"I was wrong! His fingers are moving. That's the greatest improvement we've seen since your squadron went on that suicidal rescue mission in the first place. Go!" The voice seems softer, closer, and he feels a cooling sensation against his head.  
  
"I'm sorry. This is all I can do for now. Just help you sleep." A coolness glosses across his skin, and he can feel himself sinking. It's a pale imitation of the darkness he lie in before, but even so, he feels at rest.

* * *

**II. FIRST SUMMER**

In the heat of summer, most nights he spends in a haze of the light and color in his dreams. Floating above and around and through him, he can hear the voices buoying him along, close to the border of the waking world. He tries to move but when he does, pain like lightning strikes him down, pushing him further towards the inky depths.  
  
Closer to death.  
  
What lies on the other side of that abyss, he does not know, but unlike his imaginings, he cannot hear the voices of those he once called dear while he is yet living. Sometimes, when he has the strength to form thoughts, he thinks that by sinking into darkness perhaps he will feel the warm embrace of his father and mother and friends again. He thinks that it will be a relief, if only so the lightning will stop, but instead... whenever he starts to sink too low, she grasps him by the fingertips and compels him to live.  
  
A pair of pastel green eyes glow in the darkness... they size him up, then pierce him through.  
  
 **"Are you so weak, child of Duscur?"**

 _Duscur_... it's a word he is certain he should know. He concentrates and an image comes to mind... Flower fields as far as the eye could see in the springtime festivals. A man that can only be his father dancing hand and hand with his sisters.

He clings to the memory, even if he cannot remember the name of the dancers.

Why this image in particular is brought to mind in this dream, he cannot say... Yet, much like his own name, he cannot grasp it or its meaning fully.  
  
"Please... let me rest." The voice does not reply, so he pleads again in shadow. "I do not even know who I am. Have I not suffered enough?"  
  
"You have suffered the pains of a thousand before you and yet there is more that you can bear. Child of Duscur... You have always known yourself to be an instrument of fate, yet you are unaware that the winds of time are not yet through with you? Typical human. I have been too patient as it is." From the shadows, he sees her silhouette--those bright eyes and a cascade of rich, forest green hair. The small, unassuming form of a child, her voice lazy with power. "Even now, you run away. You wish to succumb rather than take up the mantle of the man you are." He does not know how this apparition know his thoughts so well, but he cannot bother to deny it. Instead, his words enter into the still air and dissipate between them.  
  
"It is what I am owe."

His lips feel dry as he rasps the reply, reaching out towards the sound. His fingers ghost through nothing.

He does not now understand completely what she speaks of, but he has had this dream before. Perhaps he should know what to say to please her by now, but in every incarnation, he only earns himself her displeasure.

The figure sighs deeply, and with her breath comes light where there was once shadow. He can see it clearly now--a staircase beneath a massive throne cut from rock, whereupon the face, so familiar and yet so foreign, sits. She beckons him, and for some reason, the man cannot disobey. He stumbles towards her. When he has not yet drawn full up the stairs, he stops at the sound of her voice.  
  
"Do you truly believe that, child?"  
  
 _I do._ And he does. He is uncertain _why_ but he truly does.  
  
He tries to look into her eyes but he finds himself staring down at his own feet instead, each step heavy and pained. "I have repaid my life debt."

"Though the prince did not wish it so?"

An admission stirs in his chest as he nods slowly. "Yes." Deep within, he knows it is a mysterious truth, one he cannot truly feel the weight of despite his awareness that it should mean something more. His voice is soft. "Even so." He considers for a moment. "As for my other friends... I cannot protect them all. And..." he trails off, wondering on those he speaks of. What friends? A life debt to whom?

But he is not given time to dwell. She prompts him to continue, this time with a name.  
  
"And Byleth?"  
  
There is a twinge in his memory, but no face comes to mind. Only the ghost of a song and for a moment, strangely, he feels his lips quiver.  
  
"Dead."  
  
He says nothing more, if only because the dream does not allow it.  
  
"Hm..." She moves a hand from its resting place on her throne to touch her chin thoughtfully. "And so you would choose to die." When he forces himself to glance up into her eyes, there is a tender expression therein that allows him to release words that somehow feel as though he has held them deeply in his heart for a long while yet.  
  
"What else is there for me to live for?"  
  
The question feels real, in all honesty. He is not certain if it or not, but the need to ask it overwhelms him. His voice is heavy with quiet, desperate earnest.  
  
She stands to meet him, cupping his face with a gentle, motherly hand.  
  
"Yourself, child." She strokes her thumb along his cheek, sharp nails delicately grazing his skin. "You could live for yourself. Let the dead be concerned with affairs of the dead--there is much to live for if you will see it. The future you seek is yet in your grasp, Dedue Molinaro."  
  
 _Dedue Molinaro..._ Is that supposed to be a name? His name? He looks at her in puzzlement, but she only eyes at him, steadily.  
  
 _What future did he seek?_  
  
Before he can wonder, an image-one that somehow his heart registers as impossible-comes to mind.  
  
 _Sunlight filtering through a window with pale lashes casting lengthy, fragile shadows across pale cheeks. Eyelids fluttering as eyes opened languidly at the sound of a name on his lips that he cannot recall. Her name. The quiet clink of a dish placed before her, and to watch her cast her gaze upwards to catch the sight of the bouquet cradled in his arms, each flower painstakingly groomed and plucked with this moment in mind._  
  
 _White moonflowers for hope. Delicate sprigs of pink camellia, to represent longing. And the pale blue-green variation of Duscur rose that he'd been crossbreeding for over a year in the monastery greenhouse. The one he never finished, which he is certain now lay trampled under the boots of soldiers, as had so many flowers he loved before._  
  
 _'This is the Eisner rose,'_ he'd imagined saying to the one he cannot recall once the war has ended. _'It thrives best when the land is full of peace as it is now, and I adore it, as I adore you.'_  
  
Why did he wish to call it an Eisner rose?  
  
If only he could remember what significance such a name held to him. Either way, somehow, he is keenly aware that such a future is simply no longer possible, if it ever was. No matter what power this figure holds, he cannot imagine she can bring hope from the dead.  
  
"It is not." He speaks with gauzy conviction.  
  
"Hmph. Even with your memories half-formed, you speak with such certainty, as though you know more than the nothing you possess." Her tone is sharp in reply, but as if she can read his thoughts, she ruffles his loose hair. "Normally such impetuous human words would vex me but... it seems my soul has affection for you. Perhaps it is the influence of that one's heart." She draws away, yawning quietly. "I have been so bored these days while she yet sleeps..." She trails off, but he does not understand to whom or what she alludes to.  
  
"Will I, too, sleep?" He cannot keep the hope from his voice, but she merely smiles.  
  
"Only if you wish to quash any hopes of that which you yearn for." She touches a finger to her lips. "I wonder what I can do..." Shaking her head, she sinks back onto the throne, darkness returning to shroud her from his line of vision. The man does not wish to be caught up in impossible dreams, but he feels himself growing desperate as she begins to fade, the staircase evaporating from beneath his feet.  
  
"What must I do?"  
  
Her voice is a bare echo in his mind. _"When the choice is given again... you must... choose... life... child of Duscur."_  
  
He feels shadow tugging at his ankles, threatening to pull him back down, but he does not allow himself to drift towards the bottom. Instead, he reaches for the distant light that he has tried so hard to ignore and allows it to swallow him whole.

* * *

**III. FIRST AUTUMN**

He opens his eyes to the dry, blustery autumn sky and wonders again when he will remember his name.  
  
"Are we finished here?" He asks the question to the small figure beside him, bent at the base of a tree with leaves in a full sunset. She digs up herbs from the soil.  
  
"Almost. Is this poisonous blackwing or the sweet elderblossom?" He sighs again. If she did not know which it was, she would not choose it. This is yet another game she plays. The game of a child, for he thinks her one.  
  
"Elderblossom. Though you ask a trick question: elderblossom is never sweet, only bitter."  
  
"Correct again!" The petite form of Moonis Sorille, self-appointed doctor of the Duscur refugee camp, clasps her hands behind her back, nodding with satisfaction before returning to her herb gathering.  
  
He shuts his eyes as, unbidden, further thoughts come to mind. _If boiled with lavender peppers, the bitterness mellows out... Pairs well with Duscur bear meat..._ He can hear his own voice saying these very words as he demonstrates. He is in a kitchen, a large one, teaching someone. He tries to recall who, but all he can grasp is a flash of freckled skin before it disappears too quickly for him to know what he and the other person were doing together.

 _Was_ he teaching someone? Or being taught and repeating the instruction?

 _Hm_...  
  
In the months that pass since the man woke up in the Duscur refugee camp, he has never quite been sure what to make of himself. Of his life. Certainly, it is moments like now, where he restates knowledge--knowledge that he does not recall acquiring--that he feels the most unsettled. His skin itches with the need to know its source, but unsatisfyingly, persistently, it is a problem to which there is no true solution.  
  
He cannot force himself to remember, but that does not mean he has not tried.  
  
"I just need to gather a few more things, but I'm almost finished." Moonis says the words with a giddiness he only hears at times like these, when he acts as her protective guard on these supply gathering trips into the refugee camp's surrounding forests.  
  
In his opinion, she is far too young to be a doctor at the tender age of sixteen, and doubly so one in charge of a war camp. It's a thought he always thinks whenever he sees her, even though he is uncertain that he is much older. Her plaited silver hair, so similar to his in color, then pinned up into complex loops... It reminds him of a younger sister.  
  
He wonders if he ever had one.  
  
Her hand lights against his arm as she points across the brush.  
  
"Look at that herb there. What's it called?"  
  
He glances in the direction in which she points. "Adder's kiss." She turns towards it, but he places his hand on top of her head to stop her. The gesture is affectionate for a reason that he cannot place, but it feels... just right. "It's highly poisonous and I believe you ought not touch it."  
  
Moonis swats the protective hand away.  
  
"Fine. I will not." She turns to the forest, her gaze light with wonder. "But one day I will know these plants as you do." He nods agreeably.  
  
"I hope it is a day I can witness firsthand." In his heart he feels it with sincerity. He wonders if the man he were before, the ghost he cannot remember, would feel the same.

_In a humid building with walls of glass on unknown grounds, crisp steps echo behind him. He is knee deep in soil and he knows the visitor before he turns around to greet the intruder._

No... Not an intruder.

A companion. A friend. An ally.

Something more?

He can only wonder as he watches Moonis gathers more herbs in earnest. Somehow he feels closer to himself when he is in the forest too. He crouches beside her.

"I'll help."

* * *

**IV. FIRST WINTER**

"Last stretch." As his constant companion, Moonis' hand is against his back as he reaches out towards his toes. He feels comfortably warm despite the winter chill that freezes the tent flat shut each day and night, but some of his bones feel stiffer in the frosty air than usual.

Strange how something done so easily before could remind him that his muscles have gradually been knit together over the course of the year and it is now that he is really starting to regain normalcy.

As he straightens, uncurling his body, he stares at the low ceiling of the healer's tent, the familiar pattern on the ceiling like an echo from another time. He has taken up residence in this particular tent for so long that the tent could more aptly be called his apartments if only because he did not have the luxury of staying elsewhere.  
  
If he looks across the tent space where he rests, he can see them in the corner. The two canes that once were the only things keeping him mobile as slowly, steadily, on a road of many failures, he learned to walk naturally again.  
  
 _Learning to merely walk while around him, a war runs on..._  
  
"Remember anything today?" She speaks as they go through the routine, post-healing stretches to keep his body from stiffening.  
  
He thinks for a moment, then lifts an idle shoulder. "A green haired girl."  
  
"Byleth?"  
  
 _Byleth?_  
  
The question must show on his face because Moonis huffs at him, her cheeks puffing out as she drops her hands from his back. "You've forgotten even this? Back when you still had the fever, you would talk all the time. Apologizing to one called Dimitri, too." She eyes him warily, but the name means nothing to him, to his great frustration. She stares at him for a long moment before looking down at her lap, mumbling. "You know... the prince of Faerghus... _His_ name was Dimitri." He lifts an eyebrow.

"You think I knew a prince?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything about who you were before. Not really. What I do know is that you used to say that name and say all kinds of things. Apologies..." Her face is still. "All kinds of things." At his blank stare, she shrugs, flustering for a long moment. "I don't know. You never said a hair color or anything before. It was just a guess."  
  
He muses over the thought. _A "Byleth" and a prince_... both he has certainly _heard_ of before but... only in dreams. The dreams he kept secret from her because he does not know if they are simply signs of his slipping sanity or something else entirely.

He slowly begins to reply.  
  
"I do not recall. However, I... I must admit, I have been keeping a secret from you." He trusts her, this girlchild trying her best to fit into a role too big for her to handle and yet struggling along to deliver her best and save as many as she could all the same. He feels kinship somehow, though he cannot for the life of him remember what burdens he once undertook on his young shoulders. "I've been having the same dream for the past year."

"Oh?" She doesn't seem to have much interest. Not that he is surprised. She is rarely interested in less than practical matters but he continues. "There is a great stone throne and on it, a mother with the face of a girl, yet not one, her hair the color of the rich wealth of the forest. Each time we meet, she is easily frustrated with me but I am never certain why."  
  
"When you dream of this forest girl, what does she say?"  
  
"Today..." He did his eyes and grasps for more solid thoughts. _Sunlight and a rose?_ But he cannot remember enough of it to put it into words. He mentally flicks through the snatches of images and he can recall and remembers something. It's not much, but... "She told me to live for myself."  
  
Standing to let him finish his stretches on his own, Moonis stands and crosses the room to pour him a glass of water. "The forest girl and I are in agreement. I've seen the way some in the camp look at you and..." She clears her throat. "You are young and strong. The kind of person who surely does not need a past to have a future." The words seem surprisingly... mature. They do not sound like her. He looks at her inquisitively, but she avoids his gaze. His eyebrows quirks upward.  
  
"In the opinion of whom?"  
  
Moonis sighs, relenting. "Khan Lasorin, for one. She's... She's been asking me if you're doing well enough to work. I've half a mind to tell the khan you're in no state lacking memories like this... but I can't deny your physical state is in tiptop shape. Whoever you were before, you've kept yourself in excellent physical condition."  
  
He rolls his neck and shoulders comfortably. In a strange way, he agrees. In the few months since he first woke up here with barely a memory to call his own, his body has taken to the recuperation remarkably well.  
  
 _"But why?"_ He murmurs the question more to himself than to Moonis but she echoes him.  
  
"Why?"  
  
He meets her gaze with his own. "Why do I have the body and scars of war and yet, when I accompany you in the forest, I know the name of every herb you pluck as if it were an old friend and the dish that would complement it best? Who... who really _is_ Dedue Molinaro?"  
  
Glass in hand, she returns to him, her gaze solemn. "The name still doesn't mean anything to you?" As she walks, there is the quiet jingle of bangles on her ankles, a peculiarity that he has never asked about but that always draws his glances to her feet to see their source.  
  
 _What does this sound remind him of...?_  
  
He presses his lips together. "I know it must be mine, but it feels... foreign. I worry that it means that the man I was before was not a good one, and perhaps that is why it no longer seems to suit me. Yet... in my dream, the green haired girl calls me by that name."

Moonis is stubbornly insistent. "You were a good man." Her voice turns light and thoughtful. "There's a perfectly good explanation for you to know poisonous plants and cooking well."

"A former assassin, perhaps?"

" _Or_ maybe you were a farmer?"  
  
"Perhaps. Or a warrior." He shakes his head, grimacing. He had not seen a battlefield since he arrived and can only speculate either way, but... the clash of metal does not frighten him, no matter how close the battlelines get to the camp. "I am forgetting something very, very important, Moonis. If only I could grasp that thing then... I know it would all come together. But at this rate..." He shakes his head and stares down into his glass of water.  
  
Seeming to decide something, Moonis presses her lips together then rushes across the room. "I... I should give this to you. I don't know why the Khan is so reluctant but... I think you should have your memories back."  
  
He looks at her inquisitively as she digs into a bottom barrel of scrolls to pull out a wrapped parcel. "This is yours. When you were rescued from that jail cell... it was found on your person."  
  
He unwraps it slowly, anticipation in his stomach. When he does, he sees...  
  
 _A single earring?_  
  
Glimmering and golden...  
  
"What does it mean?"  
  
"I'm not... I'm not sure. I heard the Khan say the style seems like it might be from a village called Cuenca. Once you are strong enough to leave, you can return there, possibly find some answers." He looks at her inquisitively.  
  
"What makes you think I will not stay? If I never regain my memories, then perhaps..." He smiles broadly and without burden. The expression feels strange on his lips, as if the man he were before was not one prone to such expressions. "Perhaps I can be your apprentice."  
  
"Tsk!" She beams up at him despite the scoff. "Your herbal knowledge may exceed mine but your medical skill is lacking! I'm not sure you're ready. And..." Her smile fades imperceptibly. "Maybe Dedue Molinaro is a name that means nothing to you but it means something to me. The person you are is a good man, I think. I'm sure someone out there is wanting for you. That's why I think you should go, if you can."

"I'm not sure I believe that." He lifts his shoulders. "But even if they were, then they wait for no one. I am not the person I was before."

"Still, it's a shame, isn't it? To lose your memories and leave all the people who love you behind..." She trails off, shaking her head instead of finishing the thought.

He is gentle when he replies. "Tell the Khan I am ready to work."


	2. Second Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Brief, Non-Graphic Suicide Mention

**I. SECOND SPRING**

"Don't forget-you've got to step like this after you turn." Dedue crosses his arms and somewhere deep inside, relaxes. In this dream, he knows somehow, there is no blood-only his sister guiding him through. At the sight of the frustrated expression on his face, the young girl taunts him, half to be hateful, half to motivate him in that particular way that only a younger sibling could. "If you don't, you'll look like a buffoon in front of Isadora. We don't get new births every day, you know, so you won't get a chance to impress her again before she leaves for the capital next month!"

"I don't care about Isadora," he retorts sternly, "And if you bring it up again, I'll be the one who's leaving." His sister laughs at his dark expression.

"Fine, fine. I'll stop. Still, take it from the top. When the dance of blue swallows is announced, you should at least know how to do it before you give up. Didn't we agree on that, at least?"

He grits his teeth, stamping down his stubborn desire to walk away. _Dancing..._ truly does not suit him. Usually, when it comes to such things, he'd rather sit on the sidelines and watch... but even his father and mother would stray from the sidelines to joins wrists and feet for at least one. When he imagines himself dancing with the same freeness and fervor, his neck breaks into a cold sweat.

His mother would always tease him. "That solemnness is all your father's, but when it comes to dance, I'm afraid you've been dealt my hand. If not for that cursed man I call your father," she'd say with a twinkle in her eye, "I suppose I wouldn't have any reason to learn to dance at all."

He remembers asking her once.

_"Where you come from, Mother, do the people not dance?"_

_The former traveling mercenary only snorted. It is rare that she offered direct answers to inquiries about her past--or inquiries at all for that matter--but she patted his cheek gently. "No, my son. We do not dance." He knows that she would never tell him from where she was born, but this comforts him. Perhaps, he thinks, he is different because his heart is more like the non-dancing people of his mother... But she quickly crushed his dreams. "When I first came to East Duscur, I was always surprised that Cuencans always felt the need to commemorate so many things by dance. A dance for a new birth, for a successful wedding, for a housewarming... for all sorts of things. But in my hometown..." And here, her eyes would glitter brightly. "We sang. When you sing, you remind me so much of my..."_

And then she'd trail off before saying anything more.

Not that it surprised him. When he was a child, Renata Molinaro never spoke of her parentage. When he was older, he used to wonders if she ever had any.

In any case, the revelation meant that his dreams were crushed because Dedue certainly hadn't the confidence to sing in front of others, either.

She waves her hand in front of his face.

"Come on, what did I just say?"

"Step and turn." Nodding eagerly, he watches her step to the edge of the meadow clearing where a drum awaits. "I'll play the section where your dance will come in!" Dedue nods, then sings the part of the music to himself to keep in time with the song.

 _"To the Duscur skies, fly little one  
_ _Spread your wings to the sea, sea, sea  
_ _Say goodbye to fear, fly little one  
_ _Glide towards your dream, dream, dream_

_Claws of eagles, teeth of lions  
Hoofs and antlers of the deer  
Duscur will protect you, child  
Never doubt and never fear"  
_

He stops singing to hum the outro. This is the most difficult part, he knows, the part he's practiced the most. Dedue drops into a crouch, sliding his leg to rotate his body into a circle. He pushes himself forward into the roll. _Stand and step, ankles touching, wrists in a circle, turn and_ -he doesn't notice that the drum has stopped, the young woman watching him with wide eyes, her hands clapping quietly to keep time.

At his last hummed note, she breaks out into applause. "I can't believe you turned down Izara's request that you sing the song of birth."

Dedue feels his face flush, his mouth stubborn. "I'm to be a blacksmith, not a bard, Chiara." She... no... _Chiara..._ shakes his head.

"Father would be happy either way, you know."

He doesn't know how he replies.

When Dedue opens his eyes, he finds himself breathless in the damp spring air. _Chiara. His sister's name was..._ Dedue clings to the new word. He has dreamt of Chiara Molinaro many times, but now he is able to place a name to the face. The one his parents doted on, the terror of their family who danced well and made desserts just to eat them and never to share. The one who he was unable to protect on that fateful day, even though his mother had tasked him with doing so. Even though his father had impressed the singular lesson, the backbone of their culture, into him from the moment he could speak. ' _Duscur-born protect the weak in their care_.'

He murmurs quietly as not to stir the others who share this tent.

"I failed you. I'm sorry." He has said these words many times when he thinks of the bright faces of his family, but at last he can say them all with names in mind. "I am so sorry, dear one." _Chiara_.

* * *

**II. SECOND SUMMER**

The wet spring chill is replaced by the heat and humidity of summer, and as the warm rain clings to vibrantly green tree leaves, so he clings to the new memories and bonds he forms and forges. He sits at the fire, his people all around him as they talk in muted tones that tell him precisely who is the subject of their mutterings. He is unable to relax, even when his self-appointed nursemaid brings him a plate of meats that smell so familiar it hurts. Hurts in a good way, at least, because Dedue does know why and what and when he smelled them.

He touches the plate and offering Moonis a quiet thanks as he peers inside of it. She plops down beside him, shadowed by the one called Arsène. He had not noticed him before he started leaving the tent, but there is never an explanation offered as to why Moonis is so well-guarded. Not that, he accepts, it is any of his business.

"The khan is in a good mood it seems, so she gave me an extra allotment of rice. Do you want it?" Dedue nods slowly with a slight smile, his gathered eyebrows hinting at his true mood. "Is it... not great? Aren't you hungry?"

"I... am." He replies slowly because he had not noticed his growling stomach. Not really.

Moonis' position in the camp is... something he cannot put his finger on. Yes, she is a healer, but she is granted access to the khan with a freeness that makes him wonder. She claims that the rice is because the khan is in a good mood, but... he wonders if this is true. He wonders many things, including why he was saved in the first place.

The whole situation makes Dedue feel... for lack of a better word, strange.

He has felt this way, in fact, since Moonis' suggestion that in another life... his other life, even, he could have been someone who brushed shoulders with a prince. And not just any prince... the prince of Faerghus, their greatest enemies.

The khan is evasive in her own explanations of why she ordered a suicide mission to save him. It is a question he asks whenever she summons him, but not one she has ever fully answered thus far.

_'It was to repay a debt.'_

But she never explains how it is that she, a person he is _certain_ he never met, owes him anything. The only conclusion he manages to make is that he believes Moonis to be correct-Khan Lasorin does _not_ wish for him to have his memories again.

If only he knew why.

"Great job out there today, _El Hacha_." The warm hand on his shoulder is of Arsène, Moonis' guard apparent and a man whose eyes he can meet, face to face. It should feel normal, but... the people of Faerghus are so much more... _petite_ than the people of Duscur. He only knows because sometimes they cross blades with them, and while they fight fiercely, they lack both the determination to protect and the overall desperation to survive that these remaining ones of Duscur cling to. If Moonis' idea is correct, then that means that he once towered above his... friends? Associates? Did the other man... the old 'Dedue Molinaro' hate looking down to meet their eyes?

Alternatively... he cannot imagine it, but... is the reason he resided amongst the people of Faerghus because he _despised_ the people of Duscur?

Or is he completely off base?

Instead, did he feel the same way about Faerghus as so many of his fellows in this camp?

Fear, with an undercurrent of weariness. Distrust, with an undercurrent of mourning. They have all lost so much, and the more he remembers, the more he hurts inside. It is all the more reason, he thinks, to dread the returning of his memories. Lately, the girl with her cascade of green hair has been silent, but she can always return.

_"Hacha?"_

He pushes the bitter tasting thoughts away and nods, blinking to clear his mind. "Thank you," he replies with a hesitant smile.

"No problem." They call him _El Hacha_ now--'the axe', because it is clear that even if his mind has long since forgotten where the skill was acquired, his body still remembers how to use one well. He likes it because the moment his fellow guards began to call him by this name, the wary and uncertain gazes that lighted him wherever he went turned warmer still with every further utterance.

He feels... at home.

"There's no trees to cut down, you know. You don't have to stand there in the corner forever." And so he joins them. Takes his seat amongst the people and tries to relax. If not for the nagging, itching feeling of something he's forgotten, he's certain he could easily... Distantly behind them, there's a low, percussive drum and, if he looks over his shoulder, he will see them dancing in intricate steps his eyes somehow know, but his body does not. He wonders why he is different even when he feels so much the same. "You're a quiet one, yeah?"

Dedue nods slowly at the question. Quite honestly, the response feels finished, but he moistens his lips and tacks on a few spoken words. "I don't mean to be."

There's a quiet laugh coupled with a shy smile, and a low voice that contrasts it. Seoleon, another guard that is too young for the title, pokes the fire with the tip of his sword blade. No one scolds him.

"Moonis' talked about you well enough, but she practically kept you hostage for months. We all thought you dead and she was doing experiments on your bo-" A sharp elbow from Moonis cuts Seoleon off.

"Enough from you, Seo. Dedue's tired from-"

"From what? Cutting down so many bandits?" Dedue almost loses his balance as Arsène claps him on the back. "Oy, you should've _seen_ him, Moonis! He fights like Fioristo in the tales of old!" _Fioristo_... at last, something familiar. Dedue shuts his eyes and can hear his father's voice telling him tales of the warrior-poet who forged the mountain range singlehandedly to protect their borders from outsiders.

If only those borders stayed protected.

The exaggerated praise aside, he is glad for the interruption if only because he does not know what to say. The relief is short lived as Arsène leans forward, fingers folded together, the guard's lilac eyes glittering with a bright curiosity that has gotten Dedue in trouble before. Dedue is wary, yet... he cannot help but to lean forward in reply.

There is something intoxicating about feeling included.

Arsène's voice is muted. "Is is true, then, what Moonis says?"

"Depends." Dedue looks down at his forgotten rice, thick cuts of well-seasoned, tender lamb and broiled yellow onions stirred in. The smell makes his mouth water. He takes a spoon to placate his chattering belly. "What does Moonis say?"

Arsène and Seoleon exchange glances, and it is Seoleon who finishes the question Arsène's itching to ask. "That you... you don't remember the Day of Blood and Tears." Moonis looks at Dedue right away, and noting his grimace, punches Seoleon again. He protests. "Ow! Can you _stop_ hitting me? _Please?_ "

Moonis' hisses at him, her eyes sharp. "Didn't I say to leave him alone? Maybe he doesn't want to talk about it. Not everyone likes to."

"Stop holding your patient's heart hostage, Doctor Sorille," Arsène teases lightly, eying Moonis' elbows warily. He eyes at Dedue sharply, his gestures casual by contrast. "Just tell us, _Hacha_ , are you so lucky to have forgotten? Do you remember or don't you?"

 _Actually_ , he does. Sort of. At the very least, unfortunately, some of it has returned to him in nightmares that feel to real to be anything else but the truth. He remembers his mother pushing him out of the door, and a young girl... his younger sister's... blood in the snow... Waking up to scavengers emptying his pockets, thinking him dead. He remembers... trying to make it to a city of refuge, but all of the boats having already left the docks.

He remembers being hopeless and alone, avoiding the roads and traveling only by night. He remembers an old woman telling him to run for the border. She kept calling him by another name as she pressed a dagger and coin in his hand.

_'I'm just an old corpse, Aneile, my child. These bones must rest with you.'_

He remembers asking who Aneile was, but she only walked towards the edge of the pier and stepped off the end before his very eyes.

Dedue says as much with gruesome detail. The memories make him shudder, but even so, he still cannot remember if he followed her instructions or not.

_Where did he go at the border? Where did a prince come into his memories-if there really was a prince...?_

The three fall silent to listen with intent-even though Moonis has heard this before-and they are not the only ones. As it does any time the Day of Blood and Tears is brought up, any other, brighter conversations fall silent as they all listen in together. Everyone here has a story, Dedue knows. Not everyone shares, but he has heard some of them before.

Vardias, who came from a business trip in Brigid only to find his home razed to the ground and his aunts and uncles along with twelve cousins hung from the trees.

Stelloa, who was forced to dig graves, only to be cut down and pushed into one. Her survival is a miracle.

Mirshai and Kakario, twins who were born on that day and only survived because they were found by a refugee who'd lost her own children.

He has listened to many tales, just as they focus in on his now. Hardly a week goes by without mention of the Day of Blood and Tears, the day Faerghus soldiers marched into Duscur and tore it to the ground.

This time, however... it's the first time he has ever contributed anything himself. When he looks away from the fire, Moonis is staring at him, her eyes strangely wet. She quickly looks away, standing abruptly. "I'll get water. Seo, come with me."

Arsène shakes his head. "I'll come."

Moonis shakes her head. "No need. Tell your tale." Arsène exchanges looks with Seoleon and Moonis, then nods, his eyes trailing them as they go. He clears his throat. "I had brothers once. Four of them. All older." He grins. "Ever heard of Eiche? It was a town by the sea. Not much by the way of fish traders because our waters were as rough as my ma's cooking, but it was famous!"

Dedue cannot help himself, but someone else beats him.

"Famous for what?"

"My brothers!" There's a round of raucous laughter, but Arsène is both insistent and indignant. "I'll have you know that the Badori brothers five were famous for their looks!" Maybe by accident, maybe not, he lightly traces the burn scars running from the marred skin of his ear and across his lips, disappearing into his shirt. "Hard to believe that an ugly runt like me somehow escaped the sword but..." He smiles awkwardly, the skin stretching in a way that makes Dedue want to look away. He does not. "Guess I can't die now. I've got a legacy to uphold, you know. If I die, no one will remember Eiche. I'm all that's left, after all."

They fall silent again, the only sound the quiet drums from the other fire.

Arsène is all that is left of Eiche. Dedue is all that is left of Cuenca-he grimaces to himself, thinking of his missing memories. _What an excuse for a legacy he is._

He thinks of Arsène's words. They are all that's left, together.

* * *

**III. SECOND AUTUMN**

_"More speed, Dedue. You need to be faster, or you will never be able to protect those you hold dear."_

He is trying but... the faceless, strict voice goads him into fighting harder. It's not her voice necessarily, but the sound itself that fills him with a strange sense of desperation.

"Visualize them, Dedue. What or who do you wish to protect most in this world? Think of them, because they will keep you fighting when the blood gets thick." Smiling faces flashes through his mind, but so quickly he cannot even begin to try to pick out names.

"Fódlan's future."

"Good! Faster! What else?"

He can visualize them. A young man with blond hair and chilly, blue eyes.

A girl of a small stature with orange hair and a penchant for disaster.

Silver hair and eyes a paler green than his, a spattering of freckles across pale skin.

A soft voice and shining flaxen locks with gentle, blue eyes...

None of the faces match the voice that speaks to him. He cannot help but try to turn his head to see who givens out such commands and whether or not he can recognize her but... he cannot see clearly, mostly because in his original dream, his body does not turn to do so.

Instead, Dedue swings his axe overhead and brings it down cleanly, splitting the mannequin into two from navel to nose. He stills at the feeling of a hand against his upper back. His heart is racing. Is it at the physical effort? At the touch? He simply does not know. But if he can see her face, he knows that he will.

"Excellent, Dedue. As long as you have a clear goal of what you want to protect, I believe that you can and will do it."

He turns, and when he does, he is standing in a great stone room, warmly colored tapestries dangling from the ceiling. He doesn't remember walking there, and it dawns on him that this is another dream.

_"You know... there's no telling where life will take us after we leave here. If only we could find a way to come together again, just like this..."_

A young man that stands beside him in a crowd of other faces. People he cares about. People he wishes to protect. This does not surprise him. He has dreamt of this man's face and others before, but... what does surprise him is his own voice responding.

"A fine notion, Your Highness. Perhaps five years from now?"

_Your Highness? That's the title of... of a prince._

He tries to focus on the crowd of faces, to compare them with those he has dreamt of before, but all too quickly the conversation moves on. Most frustratingly, Dedue is only able to catch snatches of it. He pushes down the feeling. He often dreams the same dreams again, and though it is the first time for this particular order of events, he is certain he will be able to glean details another time.

The blond young man... the... prince speaks. "I'd love for you to be there as well, Professor. After all, you're the heart of the Blue Lion House."

_Heart of the Blue Lion House..._

Thankfully, his eyes glance upward and he knows. This woman, with pale green hair and paler eyes... she is the voice he has never seen. He wonders on her name, but at least he has a title. _Professor_.

Despite the cool air, Dedue wakes in a sweat, and when he does, his noise makes Seoleon awaken in the rolled cloth mattress beside his. Seo's voice is thick with sleep.

" _El Hacha?_ What is it?"

_They are waiting for him._

"I'm supposed to meet them. I don't know where and I don't know why... but..."

Seoleon's voice is drowsy. "Well, can you meet them later? We have morning watch."

Dedue is silent. _Is he too late?_

They were inside of a stone building. A massive one, if he remembers his dream correctly. How would he be able to find a place like that? He lays back down slowly. He might be too late, anyway, but... he gathers his blankets in his fists. He has to find them.

This meeting is the key to remembering who he is. He's certain of it.

* * *

**IV. SECOND WINTER**

The flaps of the tent where Dedue hides himself are suddenly, unceremoniously yanked aside.

"I hope you've prepared for an earful, Molinaro. You overdid it somehow, didn't yo-" She doesn't even finish the sentence, dropping her hands from her hips to let out a gasp. "I-I'll go get my supplies."

She returns with her normal healing kit and does not speak again until she gets to binding the parts that take the shortest amount of time--namely, the shallow cuts and bruises on his face and arms. "Do you mind telling me how this happened?" When he doesn't reply, Moonis glares at him, her hands pausing. "I already know you can understand me now when I speak in dialect, so it's fruitless to try to ignore me like you used to. When I didn't see you for the evening meal, I knew. What did you do?" He grimaces.

"Tried to go to the lake."

"The lake...? You don't mean the one on the other side of the _Teutates mountain range_? Alone?! Are you _mad?"_

"No, I just-"

"Well, you certainly are acting like a mad man! With the monsters that lurk in those routes, to cross those paths alone is suicide! If you go too far alone, there's no saying what could happen." The little doctor is already shaking her head as she smoothes a cooling cream along his chin. "Your condition is good but it's not like you're some shield made of metal. I worked too hard to bring you back from the dead for you to try to throw away your life like this!" Moonis' voice quivers with emotion the entire time that she is speaking. Her hands pause and she shuts her eyes. "Dedue... you and I both know that this camp is not what you need, and I more than anyone believe that you need to go find out who you are. You can't be content with surviving like this, not like we are." She sighs quietly. "If I could go with you... maybe I would. Either way, if you wanted to find out who you are, you'd have to live to do it!" The young woman falls into a crouch at his bedside, stopping her fussing for a moment. To his surprise, he sees that her eyes are wet. "Tell me, Molinaro. Are my efforts for nothing? Do you _want_ to die?" Her lips shake. "I just don't know what to do for you anymore."

He reaches out, then retracts his hand.

Staring down at her, he almost doesn't know what to say, so he reaches out again, this time allowing his hand to rest on top of her hair.

"I don't want to die, Moonis. I just... remembered something and I wanted to see if it was real."

In truth, if she had asked him before, he would have said that he did not know the answer to that question. He had never felt so purposeless as he did before, and to have expressed such things to someone so young somehow feels like it is against everything his father has ever taught him. But now... now he has a purpose. He does not want to turn his back on the past, true, but... here, amongst his people, he is unsure that he could turn his back on the bonds he has formed in the past two years, either.

Dedue _'El Hacha'_ Molinaro of Cuenca village to the east. Son of a blacksmith and an ex-mercenary. Brother of a sparkling, dancing light. Protector of this small group of Duscur's lost and leftover puzzle pieces.

He touches the golden earring dangling from his ear and pulls it slowly from its hole. One year ago, she had placed it in his hands, the first step on the path of many secrets.

"Moonis. Give me your hands."

She looks up at him. When she does, he presses the earring into her open palm.

"Why are you..? I can't take this, Dedue."

"You can. And you should." He rubs his neck. "Listen to me... I've had a lot more dreams than the ones I've spoken of. I was starting to believe they were just that, and I was going to let it all go. I am not nearly as attached to the recent past as you are and being here... it is enough for me. But... then I dreamt of her again. The forest girl." Dedue shakes his head. "Those dreams are always... different. They never feel like the past. They feel... real. I cannot let them go, not before I have answers."

"Dedue... just tell me. Why did you go to the lake?"

"I told you, I remembered something." He hesitates. "Or, I dreamt that I did. The girl... in my dream, the forest haired girl... she told me to go there." He falls silent. Surely she must think he is mad... but instead, Moonis listens intently, a grimace on her face..

"What did she tell you this time? To go jump inside?"

"No. She was indignant and exasperated as she always is. But..."

He can hear her voice now.

 _"Child of Duscur. It is your choice to turn your back on the past and I will not stop you. But... if you will choose such a thing, then the least I can do is ensure that your choice is an informed one."_ She'd floated outside of his grasp. _"You have been doubting lately, but I assure you..."_

"Moonis, she... she insisted that my dreams are real."

Moonish shakes her head. "You know I hate believing in such things without evidence." She sighs. "Go on."

"She said if she proved that she was real, then I could believe in my dreams as well. So I went."

"What did you find?"

"A temple. I had to retreat because of the monsters, but not before I saw a carving on the top of it. The forest girl herself, Moonis. Every detail was in her likeness. How could I dream of someone I've never met when I've never been to this lake before, either?"

Moonis is silent for a long moment. "Are you sure about that?"

"I am."

They stare at each other intently before Moonis drops her gaze to the earring in her palm.

"I know that you have to leave someday, but didn't I tell you to have patience?" She shakes her head. "Well, if I can make a request? We both know that you're going to do as you please, even though you were listening so well before... but if you are going to insist on following your dreams and rushing into places where beasts could tear you apart, could you at least do so accompanied by a doctor?"

He breaks into a smile that reaches his eyes.

"Just a doctor?"

"Of course not!" Just outside of the tent, Arsène's voice chimes out, the guard ever present.

"...As I thought, Arsène would never allow me to go alone, and I'm sure Seo would love to tag along as well..." She trails off. "Well, no matter." Pocketing the earring, she brushes her long thick braid back over her shoulder with a free hand. "I'll keep this for safekeeping. I have a feeling that once you know what it is exactly, you'll be wanting it back anyway... Now, let me retrieve more balm for your hands. You stay right there!"

With the stinging cuts on his hands the only thing left to soothe, it's an easy thing to comply to.

As much as he hurts, his heart cannot stop flying. There is something intoxicating about feeling like he is a part of something, a member of this exclusive friendship instead of a floating soul without memories or hope.

Again, Dedue feels at home, and in a house that he has built.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't write a note initially, so I am VERY sorry if you're triggered by suicide or anything of the like.;; I updated the tags as well.
> 
> Also, I'd like to say I'm so sorry for updating so slowly..... DX I know that I'm maybe known (well "known" LOL I'm not exactly anyone in the fandom so please don't take that as arrogance--) but I'm maybe better known for my bydue stories and right now I'm working on these non-romantic fics... They're a LOT harder for me to write so updates will come slower as I squeeze these babies out of my brain, haha.
> 
> It's good to challenge myself though... right?? Haha. Anyway, I hope I'll be able to finish something Bydue and romantic soon! :'D
> 
> As soon as I finish posting my chapter fic WIPs (Retrograde & Recovery) I can get to my BIG chapter fic which is... well. I'll talk about it more when we get closer to that time. :"D


	3. Third Year

**I. THIRD SPRING**

He stirs the pot gently, the smells wafting from the bubbling liquid enough to make him smile. This will surely be delicious, especially when he mixes in the rice he has already prepared, waiting on the side of the large pot.

He doesn't get kitchen duty as often as he wishes to, but the truth is, he feels more at home doing these than he does on patrol. There are not many things that bring him comfort as this does-except, perhaps, when he is mending garments in front of the fire, the quiet sound of Seoleon's flute lilting in the darkness. He does not even need to see, but the stitches are always perfectly straight.

Another point for the mysterious past Dedue Molinaro.

 _Ah, well,_ he thinks, wafting the scent of the stew towards him. At least the name feels more like his than not these days.

"Seo. Are the bowls clean?"

From behind him, Seoleon holds up a stack. "Yes! So clean you could... ah..." He trails off for a moment. "So clean you could eat off of them!"

Dedue lifts an eyebrow. "That is what I hoped for. Let me serve." He apportions out the meal with his ladle, thinking on how it will taste.

Based on the smell alone, it is going to be another success, and he cannot help but feel pleased as he watches the gatherings around the fire dig in with vigor.

He returns to the cooking area to retrieve a few more sets of servings.

A single eye smiles up at him as he places the bowl in a familiar woman's hands. Elder Ina, from New Laticier. He remembers the name of her town because he once journeyed there with his mother, but he does not recognize her face. Sometimes he wonders if it is because he would be unable to recognize what she looked like before. Her right eye and ear are gone, and there is a jagged scar across her throat that tells him exactly what happened to her during the Day of Blood and Tears. He wonders how she survived, but she is one of the few who has never told her story in the firelight.

Her husky voice rasps out. "I always love when it's your turn to do the cooking, Dedue. It tastes just like home."

He smiles. "High praise, Elder Ina. But I hardly think so. It's hard to remake such meals when I don't have the spices that my mother taught-"

She interrupts him to lightly touch his hand. "It tastes _just_ like home," she insists quietly. His protests falls silent.

"Thank you."

She smiles up at him, accepting a spoon for the meal. "If I still had surviving grandchildren, I'd convince them to try to snatch you up, Dedue." He flushes at the compliment, speechless for a moment. "Well, don't stand there gaping. I'm sure you've got more mouths to feed." He clears his throat and moves along the line with the next sets of bowls.

As he sits himself with his own serving in his hands, he shuts his eyes and imagines his mother teaching him. "This dish is one where rice is king! Bear meat, fresh zanato tomatoes from the vine, smoked paprika, cayenne, onion, celery, green pepper, garlic and ginger. All of them come together first, like delicious heralds to the king."

He smiles and takes a spoonful of the dish.

At the first taste-

_"Chop the vegetables into bite-sized pieces. After that, skim the top layer off the pan. Be mindful of the heat."_

_He is looking down at a small girl, her green hair in elaborate swirls. "Certainly, Chef Dedue."_

_He is... he is teaching her to make this dish, except... he has never prepared it with vegetables before. He wonders if he is remembering incorrectly, but he remembers, clear as day..._

_"First, chop the vegetables. Coming right up, Che— Er, Dedue!" She is a terrible cook. Her name... he thinks on it, but it doesn't come. It's on the tip of his tongue... Something beginning with 'F'... He remembers smiling down at her, at being pleased at her progress._

_"Good."_

Dedue blinks. _Flayn._ He was teaching a girl named Flayn to cook. She was one of the worst he'd ever seen. She is... his friend. In his memory, they are in kitchen, one he has dreamt of many times... but he cannot for the life of him think of why he was there... or, actually, where "there" is.

He surveys the camp, watching as they eat around campfires. Somewhere in the huddled group, Arsène's flute whittles out a quiet tune from the edge of the camp.

There are so few adults here and fewer still children. Most people here, it seems, are his age with few exceptions. There are many more like Seoleon, forced to grow up because their parents and mentors were cut down. Like, if recent news is correct, the prince was cut down. For all of his wondering as to whether he had once been in close contact with him, the whispers in the wind of other travelers have brought news that this prince has been missing for over a year and, as Moonis once let slip, the time period is remarkably close to when the men of Duscur came and rescued him.

The blurted statement drew curious and angry glances that perplexed him until Moonis' spoke again.

"Not," she loudly, quickly added, "that I would think you a traitor. I know you would never support the kingdom after what they did to us."

Then again, Arsène told him directly that the khan ordered that he be rescued. From _prison._ A prison in Fhirdiad.

He hates to consider it the possibility but... if he was a prisoner three years ago in Fhirdiad at a time the empire had claimed it... If he supported the prince, then... perhaps he was caught? But even that does not sound like the complete truth. There are memories he avoids dwelling on, ones that make him wake in the night with something like fear curled into his stomach.

Memories of him guarding a door, blood dripping down his neck from too many wounds in too many places. He does not remember clearly why because he does not wish to, but he cannot shake the fact that in the memory, he is willing to die before he would let someone into that room.

He was delaying, he knows for sure, but what escapes him is clear. What... or who was he delay for? Who was he protecting with his life? He must have failed because he clearly was found in a prison... and in truth, he cannot remember his time in the prison itself nor the rescue afterwards. Whenever he brings it up, Seo directs him to Arsène. Arsène directs him to Moonis. Moonis changes the subject.

It would frustrate him if the answer did not fill him with apprehension.

There must be something in those memories that his mind will not allow him to experience again-even in imagination, because his only thoughts are of days on end of intense pain and wishes for death to take him...

He takes a seat on the edge of the cooking area and wonders on the truth. His moment of peace doesn't last long.

Moonis approaches him, both of her palms lowered. He stares at her hands, then up at her.

"No."

"I didn't ask anything." The musicians have already started playing, but Dedue doesn't budge, instead looking down into his bowl-but Moonis stares down at him patiently.

"Just take my hands, Dedue. It'll be funny! Oh! I mean, fun." But she's already grinning. "It'll be fun." She pauses again. "Well, both. Funny _and_ fun." He shakes his head, putting his bowl aside as he frowns up at her darkly.

"You are a terrible friend. Pray that I have mercy on your feet."

But Moonis only laughs.

* * *

**II. THIRD SUMMER**

It is in the deep of the stifling summer night that he has the dream for the first time.

The dream that takes place in Fhirdiad.

As far North as the city is and as much as he has been led to believe that Fhirdiad is a city of bitter cold, on this day, it is the 18th of Blue Sea Moon, the seventh month of the year and, as far as he can tell, the _hottest_ month of the year.

He can feel the sweat trailing down his back and is uncertain if he is dreaming of it or not.

She looks as him with barely concealed displeasure, the maid who holds a silver tray in her hand, the pointed crests of her maid's uniform reminding him of thorns. _Yes,_ he thinks, both in the dream and in his mind, _this is a thorny place of thorny people_. Placed delicately on top of the tray's surface is a pair of dark envelopes, a matching curling golden design crisscrossing the back of each. "There's a pair of letters for his Highness." Dedue doesn't bother to mention that one of them clearly has his own name on it. Instead, he nods, reaching for them. The moment he does, however, she pulls the tray away, looking at him sternly. " _Don't_ forget your place. You're not to open there. Just because his Highness trusts you doesn't mean you can take liberties."

He waits for the lump to form in his chest as it always does when he is spoken to this day, but it does not come. He is... tired. Too tired to react.

Instead, the teenage boy takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out slowly through his mouth. He ought to be used to it by now, anyway, this treatment. It is... decidedly interesting, he thinks, that even people who serve the prince still think themselves above him. It should come to no surprise that Dedue feels unsettled by the special attention that the prince himself is bent on giving him. Attention he is unready he will ever be comfortable with when the same servants that smile and bow at him in His Highness' presence have nothing but scowls for him when he is alone.

No matter how much Dimi... his Highness wishes to be close... It seems that the people of Fhirdiad are all too keen to remind of him what his place is.

He reaches for the letters again, taking them firmly in hand.

"I _am_ aware, yes. I fully intend on delivering them to his Highness. Unopened." He is grateful that his voice does not shake.

"Hmph." She leaves him with the envelopes. For all her sniveling, he is an honest young man either way, and the letters finds their way into Dimitri's hands moments after he returns from the armory. The prince notices them before Dedue can say a word.

"Are those what I think they are?"

Dedue lifts his shoulders. "I suppose it depends on what you think they are, your Highness."

" _Dimitri._ And-" he rips the envelope open excitedly, his eyes scanning the words on the paper excitedly. "Dedue. Dedue! I suppose I should've expected as much considering my position, but-" He lets out a delighted guffaw, clapping him on the back. _Ow._ He's about to mention it when Dimitri winces. "Oh! Sorry, I've forgotten my own strength again, haven't I?" Dedue lifts a hand reassuringly.

"I'm alright. Continue?"

"Our acceptance letters to the Officer's Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery have arrived! Here's yours, of course. They sent them together, I supposed because I sent in our applications together. Isn't it fantastic?" Dedue remembers thinking that in all honesty, being away from Fhirdiad is not something he looks forward to. As much as he is scorned here, it is the closest thing he has to a home.

He doesn't say the thoughts on his mind. Instead, he inclines his head. "If you believe so, your Highness."

Dimitri's smile dims slightly. "Are you not excited then? We could finally be away from the kingdom! You could finally train with teachers far superior to myself. Far superior to those in the castle who foolishly fear training you to your full potential in axe."

_Ah?_

Dedue remembers feeling surprised that Dimitri noticed as much. The prince seems to note the expression and smiles.

"Trust me, Dedue. The Officers' Academy... it'll be a chance for you to start anew. I'd like you to attend." Dedue hesitates.

"As part of my duties as a vassal?"

Dimitri frowns. "Vassal...?" He shakes his head slowly. "I was hoping that you would consider attending as my friend and fellow officer, but..." He sighs. "If I must insist in this way, I will." He hesitates for a long moment, his voice low as he considers. "I... I admit, I do not think it is safe for you to be here alone, Dedue. Even that aside, I don't think it right for you to be just a vassal. You have so much more potential than that."

"Is that truly what you ought to be less worried about, your Highness?" He frowns slightly, "Even if you think that I am more than just a vassal, surely you understand that my position is not nearly as valuable as the one born to be king. I'm not sure it's appropriate for you to feel such concern."

"Of course it is! Because before you are a vassal, you are my friend!" Dimitri's raised voice draws looks from the guards positioned at the doors. He lets out a alow, controlled sigh. "Enough. I am finished debating you on this subject again. We leave when at dawn. I hope that you will be r-no, excuse me. Please be ready, then."

"Yes, your Highness." Dedue sees Dimitri grit his teeth, but he says nothing more. In reality, he understand the prince's feelings-but feelings do not change their positions. If he is too close to the heir of the kingdom of Faerghus, he is painting a target on his own back. And in reality... there is a part of him... small but itching, that thinks that if the other people of Duscur saw him now, they would think him a traitor.

Maintaining this distance... it is safe. It is all he can control, all he do in these circumstances.

Even if it hurts.

Dedue opens his eyes.

 _This dream_... it was so vivd that he knows... _he knows_ it was real. But it can't be. If the people in the camp knew he once spoke to the prince face-to-face...

He swallows, taking a deep breath as he runs a hand over his face. _No, no, no. That's impossible. It has to be or else... he was allied with Faerghus. The murderers of their people. He is... was a traitor._ If Moonis knew... or Seoleon, or Arsène... or any of them knew, the life he has built would come crumbling down. Dedue cannot allow that to happen.

"It wasn't a memory. It was just..." he grasps for an explanation and thinks of the discussions around the fire that he has heard before. Mentions of a man of Duscur, standing at the prince's side. "I've been letting their stories get to me," he mutters to himself. "That's all it is."

He lies back down beneath the sheets and shivers in the summer air.

_Dedue._

The prince's voice calling his name... it sounded so real.

He swallows deeply and wonders whether or not the Dedue Molinaro of old is a good man... or the traitor his dream suggests.

It's an answer that he fears the answer to.

* * *

**III. THIRD AUTUMN**

The camp stops under the autumnal dawn, the people coming to a gradual stop and settling down like a great and weary beast. He wonders where exactly they are going, but in reality, he knows that there is no answer.

They are the crumbs of Duscur, nomads with no place to go since of their number, there is not a single one alive who wishes to return to their homeland if it means they would be under the yoke of House Kleiman. Not only that, but as Dedue has overhead... there was a time when a brave batallion of Duscur, some of the last of their calvary had attempted, four years before, to push back against the armies of Faerghus.

From what he has heard, they failed and barely escaped with their lives, all thanks to a mysterious group of soldiers from Faerghus led by its prince. Amongst their ranks, he has _also_ heard, there was a student. A man of Duscur. He wonders who that man was.

_Could it have been..._

His lips feel dry every time he considers the possibility, and so he tries his best not to.

In the chill of the morning air, Dedue arms himself in preparation for that day's mission, wincing as cold metal touches a crevice of skin not covered by the cloth padding. He lets out a slow, tired breath, if only because cold mornings seem to be less pleasant than the colder nights. Nights, at least, are filled with warm, wordless music he can't help but to hum along to.

He is on guard duty for the resuppliers for the first time since his arrival. The briefing made it seem simple-he merely had to escort his trader from stall to stall and, he suspects, intimidate anyone who would dare try to cheat them. Dedue arranges the clasps on his armor solemnly, glad at least that the trader he's been assigned to protect is one that he considers a friend. Mythrisse, who, though noisy, is a friendly chatterbox that never seems bothered by his silence whenever he sees her in the camp. In a strange way, he admires a person who can speak as though there is a waterfall constantly on her lips just waiting to spill out... and it helps greatly that she always seemingly has something of interest to say.

Leaving to report to the traders' tent, he sees them before he reaches his destination. In truth, most faces he sees are familiar, in that case of the traders, he is certain he would know their professions even if he were a stranger still. The crew in charge of their minor finances consists of the same people; the crafty, heavyset Miltori with a mouthful of glittering, golden teeth and a silver tongue, the serious, sharp-eyed Fiola who could sniff out a bargain if it were the furthest thought from a trader's mind, of course, his charge, Mythrisse, Teppril, a man of sparklingly bright countenance and even brighter eyeshadow and lastly-he grimaces. He'd almost forgotten. His gaze has been drifting from person to person as they mill in and out of the tend, but the moment they rest on the final tradesman, exiting through the wide tent flaps, Dedue quickly averts his gaze to avoid trouble.

Too late.

"What are _you_ doing here, _intruso_?" The words of the fourth and final trader are spat into the air, sharp and cold. Dedue can't help it, but he sighs aloud, his breath steaming into the air. How could he have forgotten that Roman was amongst those on duty? He ignores the intended insult for a moment to consider his luck. In his recollection, he has never done anything to provoke the young man's ire, but sometimes, he would catch him staring at him coldly across the firelight. He has never had an interest in knowing the particulars of why that gaze because as long as they did not cross paths, he assumed it would be alright...

But the day has come. They are crossing paths.

He keeps his voice calm. "I am assigned to Mythrisse's guard detail." _And not yours. Thankfully._

"Oh, really?" He spits on the ground near Dedue's feet contemptuously and Dedue can feel the camp around him freeze, the people closest to him holding their breaths. "Well, _good_. In fact, that's _all_ you're good for. Standing there in the background as someone else's punching bag." Dedue doesn't respond in hopes that it will end it, but the man steps into his personal space. "What's so good about you, huh? Got the khan throwing our men in the trash to rescue a Cuencan like you. There's a reason no one from Cuenca survived. Because you were weak." Dedue can feel his pulse in his hands and in his heart, hot and steady. He knows the man is trying to get a rise out of him but he does not know why. He moistens his lips with a steady tongue and takes a deep breath.

"Roman. I do not know why or how I have angered you and I sincerely apologize if I have offended you in someway. But... let me tell you explicitly. I am not a man to be trifled with. Please don't do this."

He closes the space between them so that they stand almost chest to chest. "Please? Aren't you polite?"

"Roman." He says his name again, and there is an almost pleading note in his low voice as he does so. He speaks quietly and there is no room for doubt that he will act as he says he will. "I will not start a fight with you, but I will finish one."

"Let's see how sharp your axe is, then," he smiles derisively, _"el chacha."_ Dedue grimaces at the insult, taking a defensive step back. There is a swell of noise and activity around him that he barely perceives.

"Quick, get the khan! Roman's trying to fight _El Hacha!_ " But before he can even _touch_ his axe, however, there is a whirlwind of embroidered white fabric and armor, the telltale well-worn sandals of a brawler slapping Roman across the face. Roman stops his advance in surprise. He looks in the direction of the footwear only to see the khan wielding her other shoe. She strides towards him purposefully.

"What the-" Khan Lasorin slaps him with her other shoe, shock silencing him. The tall woman eyes him with cold fire in her eyes, the pale icy blue gaze that Dedue is unsure he will ever trust.

"Stand down, Molinaro." Dedue has already folded his hands behind his back. He didn't want to fight anyway, so he certainly didn't need a command from her not to do so. "To my tent."

The procession to the khan's tent is short but solemn. And as soon as the flap is shut-

"Are you a fool, Roman?" Roman holds his sore cheek in his hand where the first sandal slammed into his cheek, silently glowering. "So silent now, when silence would've saved you from the sound beating Dedue would've doled out. This army was deployed for one reason and one reason only, Roman. Why's that?"

Roman's eyes stray towards his, but the moment it does, the sandal's filthy bottom slaps Roman's cheek once again. The hit is to humiliate rather than to hurt, but... Dedue almost flinches anyway.

He mumbles an answer. She raises the shoe again and brings it down against his forehead with a sharp slap. Roman says the answer louder, with more conviction. "To preserve the Duscur rose! The hope of Duscur! But..." The sandal lowers. He blurts the word seemingly by accident, and just as suddenly trails off. It's too late, though. The khan's curiosity-and Dedue's-is already peaked as Lasorin lifts an eyebrow.

Dedue considers. _The Duscur_ rose? He has hear the phrase 'the hope of Duscur' in the camp before but... admittedly not one he has paid attention to. He'd assumed that it was literal-they are survivors and therefore the only hope of their people surviving. But... the way Roman says it-and accompanied with a phrase he has never heard before...?

"But?"

Sparing a resentful glance towards Dedue, Roman mutters under his breath. "But _this_ man is just a Cuencan."

"You're right. He's just a Cuencan. But there are two people in this camp whose lives carry an... an _incalculable_ value to Duscur's future. One you know well, and the other stands in this very room. I promise that it is not me." The khan drops her shoe with a slap. Brushing the cloth away to reveal the flesh of her thigh, she slips her foot into the sole. Then, looking back up into his eyes, she stares at Roman icily. "Don't be a fool and think it is yourself either."

" _Him?_ But why him? I don't understand why we had to save this _intruso's_ life when my elder brother was left to fate after the kingdom's soldiers raided our camp five years ago!"

"You are not here to understand. You are here to trade, Roman--and if you cannot do that, I'll return you to the mud where I found you." Lasorin turns away from him, reclining casually as if the cold spark of madness does not touch her. "Dismissed."

Dedue turns to leave, moving to exit with Roman-and to think--but Lasorin stops him.

"Dedue."

"...Yes, Khan?"

Her voice is both light and heavy. Airy in words, but so, so heavy in thought. "I was serious. You and Moonis are the hope of Duscur. I didn't send our people in to save you out of the kindness of my heart. I did it to repay a debt." His eyebrows furrow, but still, he does not speak. "I'm sure you've heard the whispers--and I'm even more sure they've been distorted. So allow me to lay the story straight." She gestures for him to sit, but Dedue does not.

"I'll stand." She remains unbothered, brushing loosed hair behind her ear to reveal the shaved scalp beneath.

"Very well, then. Four years ago, my brother-may his strength live on in my fists-organized a rebellion against the armies of Faerghus. They were underarmed and destined for death, but the fool still fought. He did not die then. Do you know why?"

Dedue stares at Lasorin. "Why?"

Her lips curve upwards into a cold smile. "Because one of _our_ bretheren intervened. Interfered, rather, if my brother were to tell it." She sighs airily. "Prevented from the glory of death and incurring a life debt to one Dedue Molinaro, instead. What a fool he was, truly..." Her lips curve upwards into a cool smile that does not reach her eyes. "I've been keeping tabs on you at the monastery _long_ before we rescued you from prison. And when I saw the chance to repay that debt and save your life, I took it."

"Garreg Mach... Monastery?" The name... no, the entire story feels painfully familiar and eternally strange, accessed only in a world of dreams that is now brought starkly into the real world.

"Well, no matter. I will not be here much longer, and soon enough, Moonis will take my place. She cannot avoid the responsibility forever..." Dedue opens his mouth to ask what she means, but she is quicker. "You think on it, young Molinaro. For now, I need you to do me a favor." He does not answer, instead gazing at her solemnly, unblinkingly. "Keep on trying to remember. Because when you do, you must save Duscur. Else, you must avenge her." The lazy smile drops from her lips, forming into a cold grimace. "For that is what it means to be our hope."

* * *

**IV. THIRD WINTER**

He holds the words in his heart.

Dedue is not normally a man of secrecy, and he wishes for nothing more but to confide his suspicions-his fears-to the people he cares for most, but... whenever he feels himself readying to say those words, Moonis' voice whispers in the back of his mind.

_"I know you would never support the kingdom after what they did to us."_

Moonis' laughter snaps him from his thoughts as she sits around the firelight in their traditional group. He looks at her.

_How she has truly matured._

It's been almost three years since she saved his life and he can see it--Moonis is no girl now. At nineteen, she had grown in inches and in knowledge, and in trust. She trusts him. Like a friend. Like a brother. And if he tells her what he is thinking, it will hurt her. It will hurt them all.

" _Hacha,_ you're quiet tonight." Arsène pauses, rubbing the marred skin of his neck. "Well, quieter."

"I think I'm the man of Duscur who accompanied the prince."

And the laughter dies, just as he knew it would. Then, Seo bursts out into a loud, nervous giggle. He's the only one. When no one else joins him, his gaze joins Arsène and Moonis' both, eyes wide.

"You're... you're not serious, are you?"

"I am."

Moonis shakes her head. "Don't say that, Dedue." Her voice is soft. "Don't do that. I don't want to hear it."

He swallows.

"I've been holding it in for months, but I remembered something. The prince of Faerghus. Dimitri, he-"

"Don't say his name! It was bad enough that I had to hear it over and over again while I was saving your life. Sometimes I can still hear it. You apologizing to the prince of Faerghus... as if he shouldn't be the one to apologize to me!"

Dedue is taken off guard by the outburst. His voice is tentative.

"To... you?"

Her eyes widen as she hastily corrects herself. "To all of us! He should apologize to all of us."

Seo's eyes dart back and forth between Moonis and Dedue. He clears his throat awkwardly. "W-well... he lost his family, too, Moonis..."

"And then he went back his castle in the capital of a thriving nation and grew up surrounded by soldiers in luxury. What did I go back home to?" There is a silence as Moonis lowers her voice to a heated hiss. "After _my_ family was killed, Arsène, tell them-where did I go? Did I go back to my ancestral home?"

"No." He fiddles with his flute, mumbling the one word reply monotonously as though he has heard this speech before. Perhaps he's has-but it's certainly a first for Dedue.

"That's right. _No._ My lands were ashes. My _people_ were in ashes. And when the dust settled, my ancestral home was rubble ground beneath the boots of soldiers. I _had_ nowhere to return to. Dedue, if you have any respect for me, then..." Moonis swallows, her voice quivering with anger, "Then you'll believe me when I say, **I don't want to hear it**." She stands abruptly. "It's crazy talk and you're never going to mention it again." Seo reaches out slowly to touch her on the shoulder, but she jerks away before he can even speak, as if she senses the fact that he's about to attempt to placate her.

"Moonis, maybe you need to hear this-" His soft voice contrasts with Moonis' sharp one.

"I don't need to hear _anything_." She strides away quickly from the campfire, Arsène scrambling to his feet to follow. He spares Dedue a single glance, flashing an apologetic smile before ducking after her. Only Seo and Dedue are left. _For now_ , Dedue thinks. He drops his gaze back into the fire.

"Are you going to go too, then?"

Seo hesitates before slowly shaking his head. "No, I... I'll stay."

They're silent for a long moment, the crackling flame the only noise in the cold winter air. He shivers.

Seo speaks first.

"Moonis... she just needs to cool down. I mean... you can't blame her for reacting that way, right? What you said _was_ kind of shocking." He pokes the fire with his sword, a habit he has kept since Dedue met the young man. "But I can't blame you either. It's not like you can help the person you used to be before..." He trails off and lightly raps the side of his own head with his knuckles. "Besides, whoever you were before, bad or good, you can decide who to be now, right?"

Dedue nods slowly. "Right." In truth, he doesn't know if the old him was a bad man or a good one. But he knows the kind of man he is now, the kind of man he wants to be. A traitor is farthest from his mind, but... his past is not a thing he can erase so easily. He must... and he wants to... face it. Whatever it is. "Seoleon." At the sound of his full first name, Seo tilts up his chin in a question. "Moonis had an ancestral home?"

Seo's eyes widen. He flusters for a moment, his long legs retracting to fold into his body as he hugs his knees. "U-um... it's not really my place to talk about that kind of thing... but what I can say is this." He lowers his voice into a whisper. "We call Moonis the Duscur rose, you know. She bloomed from the ashes when there wasn't any hope. We obey the khan's orders but... we follow Moonis, Dedue." He blinks, his eyebrows drawn together. "Moonis doesn't like to talk about it though, so..." Dedue nods reassuringly, holding up a hand to stop him.

"Thank you, Seo. You've given me food for thought."

He breathes warmth into his hands and considers the newfound weight on his shoulders and what it means to be the hope... the rose of Duscur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left! Phew. It's longer than usual. These are harder to keep short the more I write them, haha.


	4. Final Year

**I. FOURTH SPRING**

Dedue does not give up his pursuit of the truth. In all honesty, he _cannot_ give up. Not when his musing on Moonis' identity has haunted him so. Not before he knows if the conclusion he has drawn about her is correct.

He has always suspected something about Moonis is... different. The way she is never allowed to be alone, always under the protection of Arsène, or Seoleon, or rarely, himself.

The way Khan Lasorin calls Moonis as the rose of Duscur. The hope of Duscur. He still does not quite understand why _he_ would be the hope of Duscur along with her when his memories suggest him to be a traitor, but... he clings to the hopeful words that somehow he is more than just a man of Duscur who allied with Faerghus for shallow reasons. He will figure out what they are, most certainly.

But for now...

He sits by the fire to the shaky melody of Arsène's flute and muses on the dream he held the night before.

_"I am not king yet, Dedue." Face framed by chin-length hair, the young prince's bright blue eyes bore into his, his chest heaving from their last bout of sparring as he leans against his lance. "But when I am, I promise to build a kingdom that is proud to boast of Duscur blood." He can hear his own voice respond, cracking with adolescence._

_Dedue usually does not allow himself to speak in such moments for fear of breaching yet another unspoken cultural rule as he has so many times before. He still does not always understand the foreign prince, but at the very least, he no longer hates or fears him... even so, there is a small part of him that still whispers that Dimitri saved his life in preparation for some greater horror that he cannot imagine._

_...Then, he supposes, thinking of the blood of his cousins covering his hands as he failed to save them, he has already experienced the greatest horror imaginable. It is only recently, after all, that he has stopped desiring to die with them quite so much._

_He wonders if his life would be more bearable if the Fhirdiad's castle guards stopped sneering at him as he passed by or if the serving staff would stop spitting in his soup when Dimitri does not see or if the maids who cleaned his room had not left a noosed doll behind on his pillow after learning that he called Dimitri by his personal name._

_He'd thrown the doll into the fire, but now he wishes he'd kept it for evidence to show the prince the foolishness of his idealized future. His reply is skeptical._

_"You believe such a future possible, Your Highness?" Ever since he found the doll, he has stuck to the title without fail._

_"I do. And I promise I will forge it with my own two hands if I must, no matter who resists me. The people will know that you are worthy of being my equal."_ _He stands up straight, wielding the lance again. "When I am king, the people of Faerghus will know that your people are innocent, Dedue. And those that hurt the ones we love... they will pay."_

He stares into the fire and pushes the memory from his mind.

It unsettles him.

He has tried to ignore it, for Moonis' sake. For the sake of the whole camp, but there is something that bothers his that he cannot just put aside. He swore his life to the prince because his Highness threw himself in front of a blade and saved his life, true, but... there are others from Faerghus worth his loyalty, others whom he has dreamt of that he surely also owed his protection. He thought he... he thought he could leave it at the debt repaid and yet not, but...

There is still the mystery of the ones he once thought of as friends. The ones he wanted to protect, even if he never said as much in words. There is still the mystery of... the one they called the heart of the Blue Lions. The Professor.

He cannot pluck Dimitri from the grave. He has accepted that.

_But what of the others...?_

Is it truly alright for him to leave them alone?

Mercedes, for that was the name of the flaxen haired woman with gentle eyes and a softer voice... she had no family to return to. She cared to ask of Duscur at a time when he was filled with shame. She... had once been his friend. Has she too met the soil as bones and dust?

And what of Felix, the demon-tongued swordsman? The loose-hearted one they called Sylvain? Or Flayn? Or... any of them? They are his friends, and... while he feels safe and accepted amongst his people, he cannot help the part of him that wonders where they are. That wonders if Ashe, who he recalls had no family save for siblings, who was a commoner amongst nobles like he was, feels safe and accepted, wherever he is.

He remembers protecting them, many times, in countless battles.

He remembers who it is to be Dedue Molinaro of the Blue Lion House.

And yet... each day he wears a skin that is his and yet is not. He has lost everything at once time and again. Lost his culture and his blood. Lost his memories and his identity. And now, he feels is at risk for losing something precious once again if he can not figure out the mystery of how to blend these two important worlds into one.

How to be the Cuencan amongst his people and the man of Duscur amongst those of Faerghus.

How to protect all he holds dear.

* * *

**II. FOURTH SUMMER**

He stands outside of Moonis' tent, a pile of her laundered clothes folded neatly in his hands. He has respected her wishes. He never brings up his past in her presence.

But today, he will hurt her, because he must.

Arsène relaxes deceptively at his approach, hand at his waist. Dedue looks down in alarm, thinking he is touching his weapon, only to see that he is... well. Touching his flute instead. _How... how like him_ , he thinks. He notes the expression on Dedue's face and senses that he has not dropped by for an ordinary conversation.

"What's shaking, _Hacha_?" Dedue's expression is solemn as Arsène's lips tilt upwards strangely. He slings an arm around Dedue's shoulder. "Look, if you're here to talk about _that thing you really shouldn't_ then I'm supposed to tell you that Moonis is busy right now. I can deliver those for you."

Dedue shakes his head, refusing to loosen his grasp on the laundered clothing.

"Let me speak with her. We have matters of importance to discuss and this is a matter we cannot tiptoe around any further."

Arsène winces. Pulling his flute from its casing, he inspects the outside for nicks, his voice lowered. "Lady's orders. I can't... I can't disobey something directly like that. Not even for the legendary Axe himself."

"What about for Dedue Molinaro? For a friend?" Dedue looks his friend in the eyes. "Please. All I ask for is a few minutes with Moonis. I will not talk about..." He trails off and doesn't allow himself to lie. "I just wish to confirm something with her. Please ask her if she is too busy for that as well, or if it is alright."

The guard nods, disappearing into the tent, and it is not long before he returns. Dedue looks him eye-to-eye.

"She said to put her laundry on the floor when you come in." Relief surges through Dedue as he moves to step aside. As he passes, though, Arsène grasps his forearm, stopping Dedue to look him in the eye. He tenses for a moment at the touch.

"Hey, you know... when this is all over, I want you to listen to these new compositions I've been working on. You're going to be knocked straight off your feet by the artistry." Dedue can't help himself. The corners of his lips quirk upwards briefly.

"Have you played your new compositions for Seo?"

Arsène's eyes narrow. "Yes. Why?"

"How did he react?"

"..." Arsène's brows meet. "Seo doesn't appreciate art when he hears it! Listen-"

"Seo is from a musician's nation. I'm certain..." He trails off as Arsène lifts the flute to his lips. "Surely you're not going to start playing now and allow me to leave Moonis waiting."

"It'll just take a moment-!"

Dedue shakes his head and hides his smile. "Later, Arsène."

And he enters the tent.

Moonis kneels on the ground, mashing a poultice with a mortar and pestle, her back facing the tent's entrance. She does not look in his direction but Dedue does not mind. He only needs her ears, not her eyes. Setting the clothes carefully aside, Dedue grimaces, approaching her slowly and crouching at her side. Still, Moonis does not meet his eyes. He calls her name softly.

"Moonis Sorille. My doctor. My friend." He shakes his head. "Who are you?"

Her hands do not pause as she grinds. "You know already, don't you? You sound like you do."

"I have my suspicions. I know that the khan gives you free reign in the camp, and extra allotments of food. I know that you are always given a guard as, no matter where you go, Arsène follows. I know that the people in this camp do not draw near to us, and that when we take our meals, no one dares approach, save myself, Seoleon and Arsène." His voice is a warm murmur as he says the last of his gathered thoughts. "Khan Lasorin... she told me that you are the rose of Duscur. The _hope_ of Duscur." He does not mention that the khan considers him the same. He has already promised not to speak of his past, of what he's gathered of it. Her hands slow. "You are a princess. Or... _the_ princess, I suppose, since there is no one else left to take such a mantle."

Moonis laughs bitterly into the poultice she mixes. "Princess... it's a word that I've forgotten the meaning to."

Dedue is not so willing to give up. "I mean to say that you are the heir to the throne. The one who the people hope to lead them." Moonis lets out a laugh as she grinds the pestle against the bottom of the mortar with weight in her wrists.

"Heir to the throne. Dedue, do you hear yourself?" She slams the mortar against the ground, rifling through the pile of herbs she is grinding to find the correct type to be ground into the mortar as she mutters under her breath. "I am the heir of bones. The Princess of ashes." He lets out a sigh and falls into a kneel from his crouch beside her, digging into the soil with steady hands. "You've heard my story, right?"

Dedue clears his throat, shifting his weight and feeling the armor pressed against his skin shift with it.

"I know you're from Touvine, right? The town of healers. It was one of the last hit because of how far north it was and because of that you were able to get on one of the refugee boats. You got separated from your family." He thinks for a moment, his voice rising in a question. "And later, you... found out about the death of your parents by word of mouth. Did I miss anything?"

Moonis pauses, looking down at her hands. Her voice is quiet. "Just the things I've lied about."

Dedue waits for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, he moves to stand. "I should help." She holds up her hand, pausing only to forcefully toss more of the dried leaves into the mixture.

"Stay. A few corrections. I was _in_ Touvine for the Cloud Festival when the Day of Blood and Tears began. It was supposed to be my first day out on my own without my siblings. I... I wanted to play as many games as possible, and looking at the tumbling men who could twirl and flip like they hadn't any bones." She drops her hands into her laps. "My... parents gave me permission to go because I'm the fourth child. The _lucky_ one, my older siblings used to say." Moonis shakes her head, her voice painfully quiet. " _Lucky_... ha. I'm nineteen now and I'd give anything to unlearn everything I know about healing to see their faces again."

Dedue lets out a breath. He can relate.

"I did make it to the boats. And when I did... you should've seen them. I know that I will never forget the sight." Her eyes and voice grow distant, water glossing her eyes with mental images of the sea. "When I approached the shore, I was just a filthy eleven year old girl in a crowd. No one even recognized me at first, but when it was my turn to board, someone... I don't know who, announced that I was there."

"You were alone?"

She nods, blinking for a moment. He doesn't miss the tear flicking from her lashes as she does. "When I left Touvine? No. My guards, my nursemaid, they were all with me, but... Faerghus had pegasus knights patrolling the roads. By the time I arrived to the shore..." She trails off, hugging herself. "I was all alone."

"I see."

"Dedue... some of the people burst into tears at the sight of me. That's when I knew. That's when I knew my parents... my elder brothers and sister... my younger sisters..." She stops abruptly, her hands pressed against her eyes as if that will stop the flow that threatens to spill over. "They were all gone. Just gone. I..." She suddenly looks like the little girl that she describes in her memory. Small and crumpled and alone. Dedue places his hand on her shoulder, and then on her head. "I don't want to believe that you stood at that prince's side. I can't accept you supporting Faerghus. Not when they still occupy our home. Not when they've taken everything from me."

Dedue's voice is gentle. "The prince saved my life, Moonis."

"Did he? Is that what your dreams said?" She answers him listlessly, staring down at her hands.

"Dreams... memories... some days I cannot tell the difference," he admits. "I only know that he tried to die in my stead, and if not for him, I too would've fallen in the aftermath of the Day." He is pensive. "I tried to repay it after the empire attacked the kingdom. I remember trying to help him escape the empire. We were trying to escape together, but the army was coming. I... left him, alone to guard the door. Told him to run. He begged me to stay Moonis. He said we would escape together, but I knew." His throat catches for a moment, so he clears it quietly. Once. Twice. "It meant nothing to me then, but... last spring, I remember hearing the reports that he has been killed. That means that I have failed him and I owe a debt to a dead man." Moonis says nothing in reply. "Does that please you, Moonis?"

It is a test and her expression, so uncertain, tells him her result. It pleases him.

"I-I don't know." She moistens her lips and reaches for the mortar. It stays on the ground, even when she takes the pestle in hand. "It should, shouldn't it?"

"Should it?" Moonis says nothing. She drags her eyes up to stare at him. Bright red eyes, glinting at him in the darkness. Silver hair that shined far brighter than his own pale locks. The traits of the royal family that he has never seen face to face. He strokes her hair again, and wishes that he was able to comfort his sister like this. "No matter what happens, no matter where I go or what I do... you must believe me when I say that I would never turn my back on our people." Moonis squeezes her eyes shut, her eyes wet. The silent tears dripping off of the end of her nose and down into the dirt floor is her only reply.

* * *

**III. FOURTH AUTUMN**

The camp stops in a village he is certain he has never visited but fully knows what to expect-mainly because the excited chatter of Seoleon as they approach has waxed poetic on every aspect of the bustling village.

"It's called the musician's paradise because the survivors are mostly of the Ao."

At Dedue's blank gaze, the younger man laughs. He glances around himself, then lowers his voice. "You know how Arsène's always wailing away on that flute of his?" Dedue nods, feelings amused. _Wailing?_ Arsène would be hurt to hear he thinks so lowly of his playing... so hurt, in fact, that he'd probably play even louder, insisting that they just don't know the sound of true musical art. Dedue lets out quiet _'ha'_ at the thought, amusement twinkling in his normally serious eyes as he nods. "Well, the Ao people invented that flute." He puffs out his chest. "The highest quality instruments were made by our artisans. We have wandered the continent in search of the finest music-producing materials for as long as we can remember!"

"We?" Dedue gathers his hand beneath his chin. "I was unaware that you were Ao." His mind grasps for a moment. "Isn't that where Valiti and Seanora are from, isn't?" At the mention of the older pair, Seo nods in reply.

"Yes! Kind of. They're from our sister tribe by the Northern sea. Our tribe was pretty big, so we never met before the Day of... well, you know."

Dedue does know.

Seo clears his throat. "U-um, anyway, even though plenty of other survivors helped to build this new village, you can really feel the Ao influence. We're nomads so I guess it's weird to say it feels like home, but it... it does feel like home. I can't wait for you to see it!" The excitement is clear and contagious. Dedue feels the strange urge smile so he allows the expression to ease onto his lips.

"Will you give me a tour of the city?" Seo grins before the smile falters.

"Actually... I have to report to the khan with Moonis so I won't be able to. But you should be fine! It's safe in the city and at worse, all you have to do is let the Peacekeepers know if you have an issue." He gestures across his torso diagonally. "They wear scarves like this in forest green and dark purple. "I'm sure you'll find them easily enough!" He suddenly flushes. "N-not that I don't think you could take care of yourself or anything! I would never think you're weak or you couldn't take care of yourse-"

Dedue holds up a hand and holds in a laugh. "I'll see you at the evening meal. Report to Lasorin before she..."

"Yes, right, I should. See you!" He runs off, and Dedue makes his way to the campfire for a bite before journeying into the village. He notes Arsène there alone and crosses over to take a seat beside him. Even though he's the one to approach, Arsène's teeth glint with a mischievous smile.

 _"Hacha!_ Just the man I was looking for." Dedue's eyes narrow. As much as he likes his friend, without Moonis underfoot, his penchant for mischief increases exponentially. He never trusts that smile. "So I heard that this town has got some _fantastic_ instruments that could really help me expand my repertoire. Here's the plan-" Dedue stares into the fire, breakfast in his hands as he steels himself for a plan that would most definitely make Arsène worthy of meeting face to face with one of those peacekeepers Seoleon mentioned.

Until he hears it-

"Get _El Hacha_ and let's report to the khan." Dedue lifts his eyes from the fire at the tense phrase. He clears his throat, and brings his gaze beyond the flame to squint at the figure. It's someone he almost does not recognize at first, but then he does. The fellow guard stands on the edge of the fire, her name coming to mind.

"Gamryn? Get me for what?"

The older woman looks at him with a cold glint in her eye. "Oh, here you are." She looks into his plate with interest. "Oh, who cooked this morning? Is that grilled-" At Dedue's flat stare, Gamryn laughs awkwardly, then falls into a crouch beside him. "Sorry. I'm coming in from scouting the west. My patrol crossed by a Fede camp. The nomads brought news that we think the khan would find _very_ interesting."

"Namely?"

"There's word that the prince of Faerghus is alive." Dedue's vision almost goes white. _Dimitri... alive?_

He keeps his voice as steady as possible. "What did they see?"

"It's just a rumor but... far east of here, there's a monastery. Was the first place hit by the empire. I don't know why-I'm guessing the empire wasn't exactly devout." Gamryn grimaces. "There's been reports of a monster housed inside, a beast in the body of a man. I don't know if it's the prince or not, but if it is, we should find him."

"And then?" He lifts an eyebrow as though he does not know the implication. She smiles reluctantly.

"Well... we can't exactly take action without approval, but I say we hunt him down, avenge our dead, and make sure he tastes the wrath of Duscur."

Arsène, resting beside Dedue's space by the fire speaks up with an easy chuckle. "Avenge the dead? I know it's summer, but there's no reason to keep a hot head." He stands easily, leaning an elbow on Dedue's shoulder. "Hasn't there been enough death? We buried Elder Ina just last week and you're hunting for more corpses?"

Dedue nods slowly in agreement. "I am uncertain we have the resources for what you're suggesting. Are you wishing to chase a ghost as well?" "

Gamryn shrugs. "Suit yourself." She looks around herself before stalking off into the shadows in search of the khan's tent. Dropping his arm from Dedue's shoulder, Arsène lets out a low whistle.

"Crazy old Gam." He shakes his head. "Good on you for keeping a cool head there."

Dedue takes a heavy seat back down in front of the fire. "I promised Moonis that I wouldn't turn my back on Duscur." He says steadily, sparing a glance at Arsène. "I have no desire to involve myself with Faerghus again." A _nd besides_ , he thinks, _if I saw him face-to-face... if he were alive... then I would have to repay my debt._ And he knows that he would. "My father once said that those of Duscur protect the weak in our care. The people of Duscur in this camp... they are in my care, and I ought to protect them." He slides his gaze over to the other guard, watching as he polishes his flute yet again.

"Crazy that your father taught you that. Seems like every parent I know has said that at least once, even though it was all just a farce to get us to babysit our little siblings." He shakes his head slowly. "I'm still not convinced that you're meant to be in our ranks forever, if I'm honest. Moonis used to believe that too, but I think she's just..." He trails off as he follows suit, sitting back down besides the fire.

"A promise is a promise." He speaks of his promise to Moonis, but what comes to mind is Dimitri's promises to him.

 _"_ _I promise to build a kingdom_ _that is proud to boast of Duscur blood."_

They were so young, but his eyes were so determined then.

_"When I am king, the people of Faerghus will know that your people are innocent, Dedue."_

He wonders if the prince truly lives...

He wonders if the prince is still the type of man to carry those promises out.

* * *

**IV. FOURTH WINTER**

_Oh._ A dream he knows. A dream he loves.

The pale green-haired woman encased in glass, or in ice, or in time. He can never tell... but she never moves from the space against him, her arms folded across his lap as she rests, spring green strands sprawled across his thighs.

The one called the Professor.

Why he dreams of her this way... he knows and yet does not wish to acknowledge-because he has remembered everything now, and he knows that she is dead. He pushes aside such thoughts to concentrate-such dreams are the only ones where he can interact with this one, the person who stirs strange feelings buried deep within his heart.

He sits with knees folded and delicately strokes the hair from her face. It feels... strangely weightless. Reaching into the grass beside him, he carefully braids freshly blossomed spring flowers into her hair as he waits for her to awaken.

In this dream though... he knows what will happen. There are only two outcomes.

She will reach out to stroke his cheek with delicate hands, her lips curved up into a small smile-but the moment she opens her eyes, his subconscious will summon him into the waking world.

Else, she will take a deep breath and he will feel quiet, pained acceptance as her air slips from her lungs, a quiet sigh of goodbye as her heartbeat slowing beneath his hands and he feels her slipping further and further from the waking world.

As he runs his fingers through silken strands, she turns her face and nuzzles his lap. The unexpected movement has his hands pause. This has not happened before so Dedue is uncertain of how to react. Is she going to disappear again quietly into the night? He strokes his hand down her cheek to rest it on her shoulder, but the moment his hand touches her shoulder, he can feel her skin starting to turn to mist beneath his fingertips.

_Wait, please._

The mist thickens into fog. He can see her disappearing form and her echoing voice. _Tell me, Dedue. Before it's too late._

"I can't," he confesses, "I just know that I ought to say it to you once." He grasps for the words, but the wind picks up, and with it, the mist disappears along with her, and in his hands, he holds nothing.

But somehow, he was always holding nothing because he has never reached out to grab even what is held in front of him. He's only just realized it now.

**"Will you stand there forever, child of Duscur?"**

He looks up, and when he does, he's here again, before the throne.

He backs away. "Why have you come?"

"Because you did not appear at the monastery! You missed the fated day of meeting, you absolute _fool_."

Dedue shakes his head. "I... I don't know what you speak of. I have never heard of such a thing."

The lie feels sour on his tongue. He is the one who suggested that they meet in five years in the first place. Of course he remembers that he was supposed to meet them.

Sothis narrows her eyes, floating towards him in the darkness with a grim expression. "Why do you avoid my gaze? You have always been so direct with me before, even in your ignorance. What do you hide?"

"I..." He grasps for a lie, but he is not used to such things. The green-haired girl... the goddess of Faerghus... eyes him sharply with displeasure.

"Did you think you could lie to me? You know exactly who you are, and yet you consider running from your fate? If so, you are even more of a fool than I thought!"

Dedue stares up at her, defensively. "Did you not say I had a choice to make?"

"I did! But I never imagined that you would choose to turn your back on the wheels of fate! On the chance to save your people!" He pauses at that.

"The chance to..."

She lets out an impatient sigh.

"I will spell it out for you, if I must. The prince of Faerghus lives, and he has returned to the haunted child you once knew. You must restore him! It is your only chance to save your land, child of Duscur. The only way that Duscur will have a future is if the prince survives with his mind in tact, and to do that he needs two souls by his side."

"You, and-"

"Byleth." He breathes the professor's name. "But Byleth is dead."

"Is not death but another form of sleep?" Dedue's brows furrow. _Death is nothing like sleep_ , he thinks. He turns to question her further, but when he leans forward, he finds himself leaning upward, sitting up out his dreams into the cool, dry air.

Slowly, Dedue opens his eyes, his fist is clenched with a determination that feels warm and familiar. It occurs to him, what forest-haired girl is saying. His father's words come to mind.

_Those of Duscur protect the weak in their care._

Moonis, who does not have a kingdom any longer. The people of this camp who do not have a land.

They are all weak. Downtrodden. And... if he knows intimately the one who has the power to save Duscur, then all of Duscur... all of it is in his care. That includes his own fate, too, he knows. If he could restore his homeland... might he earn a place there too, amongst his people once again? Might he feel as home amongst the flower fields as he does in the camp? He whispers his hope into the darkness. "If I could find the prince... I could save us all." The khan once called him 'the hope of Duscur.' Did she know? Did she hope that this is the path he would eventually take?

He has no way of knowing, but he knows that if he wants to have a chance at finding the prince, he will need her help. He pulls on his boots and marches into the crisp snow.

* * *

**EPILOGUE : FINAL SPRING**

Dedue packs the last of his supplies quietly, then closes the pack with finality. Self-consciously, Dedue touches his scarred skin. Soon he will begin his journey across the mountain ranges to the Airmid river where the Leicester Alliance and Adrestian Empire meet. Soon he will see his classmates again for the first time. He remembers there was a time when they were apprehensive of him. He wonders... how will they think on him now, looking as he does now?

He considers that he never thought on it much before. With so many scarred faces amongst others in the camp, he never gave it much thought but now... he finds himself fretting strangely and pushes the thoughts from his mind. It is thanks to Khan Lasorin that he has gotten this far now. She has given him every report he requested, including those detailing where those allied with the Blue Lions intended to move next.

He wonders why she did not help him regain his memories, but when he thinks to ask her, her ice blue gaze revealed nothing. He is uncertain she is a woman he could never understand.

When he opens the tent to depart-

"Dedue!" Seoleon stands outside of it, arms behind his back. "I, um, er-I'm here to say goodbye."

Dedue slides his gaze around, but Seo is alone. He cannot help himself. "Alone?"

Seo sniffs for a moment, his nose dripping slightly. He doesn't wipe it, trying his best to keep his hands concealed. "Yeah, sorry..." Dedue nods. He's not offended, or even surprised... not really... but he'd been hoping that... He doesn't allow himself to finish the thought. "Hey, um... look. I get why you have to go. It's not that easy to turn your back on the past and, uh... well. I'll guess I should say that if Duscur were miraculously brought back, I'm not sure there's even a single person here who wouldn't drop everything to go home. So... if Faerghus is your home... I get it, sort of."

Dedue shakes his head. He's not sure how he can explain that he is not going just for himself-he is going for all of them. For elder Ina, who had to be buried so far from Duscur soil in her old age. For the traders and the fellow cooks. For the musicians and the dancers. For Arsène. For Seo. For Moonis.

For himself.

He opens his mouth for a moment, but Seo is already speaking again. "Arsène wishes you well on your journey, too! He says that, uh..." Seo winces, "He says that when you get back, he'll make sure to play you every single one of his new compositions. He claimed that he's working on one for you called the Ballad of Cuenca." Seo shakes his head. "Lucky me, that I get to be hear while you escape his... composition process." Dedue smothers a smile.

He will miss him. He thinks the words, then lets out a sigh. He ought to say them.

"Seoleon. I... will miss you." He embraces him openly, crushing him against his armor. Four years... Four years have passed since he woke up in this camp. He does not know when or if... if he will see him again. "If I die-"

Seo shakes his head, pulling his arms away. "You won't die," he says firmly. "You can't, or else the only legacy you'll have left behind is Arsène's Ballad of Cuenca." They exchange smiles, and Dedue cannot help but muss the boys hair. He wonders when Seoleon began to look so mature and lets out a quiet breath. "You know... I've never had a brother, Seoleon. But if I did..." He trails off as Seo nods, looking away for a moment to hide his own glassy eyes.

"I never had brothers, either. I never told you, Dedue but... I never actually lost a family on the Day, you know. I never had anybody to lose. Sometimes I... I think that's better than what I see people here going through, like you guys." Seo looks down for a moment. "But... I think that if I had a brother like you, I'd be happy to gain you back. I... I hope you come back to us, Dedue. This is for you." It's then that Dedue finally notices what Seo's been hiding behind his back. The slender young man holds up a thick, folded blanket. "From all of us."

"What's this?" He reaches for it, but what he sees on top makes him pause. A golden earring. The golden earring he gave to Moonis. Or... not? He looks that the tassel dangling from the end. There's a folded paper on top. He opens it slowly.

_Dedue._

_Khan Lasorin told me about your plans._

_I knew this day would come but I hope it wouldn't._

_I don't know if I will ever be able to forgive those monsters, much less work with them._

_I think you're a fool for trying._

_B_ _ut... if you succeed, then I'll become a fool as well._

_I promise._

_Signed,_

_The Rose of Duscur_

He lifts an eyebrow. She'll become a fool as well? Does she mean that she will... accept her position as heir? He stares at her signature. _The Rose of Duscur_.

Seo watches attentively as he reads the letter and takes the ornament in hand. "That's the royal emblem of Duscur, you know." His voice turns to admiration. "She even gave your tassel royal colors! I remember when the bards would refuse to use that shade of orange. They could get in trouble with the royal family so I've... I've never seen it up close." Dedue stares down at the gift.

"Is that so?" It's all he can manage, filled with emotion as he is. Seo's voice is soft.

"I think it's her way of saying that even if you fight alongside them, you'll always be one of us." He holds out the scarf, flicking out the rich blue cloth, embroidered with red and cream and wrapping it securely around Dedue's neck. "There! You should be warm for those cold winters over there, I think. Give me the emblem?" Dedue hands it to him wordlessly, watching silently as he pins the cloak around him with the royal emblem. Seo steps back to observe his handiwork, then nods proudly. "You look like a real man of Duscur," he muses, not without some admiration.

Dedue cannot even express the feelings that swell up into his heart. He rasps out, touching his chest and bowing low.

"I will see you again." It's not a promise, but it's the closest thing to it: a hope. They embrace again, and Dedue sets off, the scarf wrapped around his armor. Protecting his will to live. Protecting his heart.

He grimly faces the trees. The path between himself and his friends at the Great Bridge of Myrddin gets no shorter.

He must find his friends and protect them.

He must find Dimitri and save him.

He has already found himself... and now he will use that power to save those who he holds dear.

Dedue Molinaro begins his march.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes this fic! I hope you guys enjoyed my take on Duscur and on what Dedue spent his time doing during the timeskip.
> 
> Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts! :D
> 
> For more Dedue losing and then finding himself talk, find me on Twitter [@DedueFanclub](https://twitter.com/DedueFanclub)!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I'm back from my (unannounced, sorry) hiatus!
> 
> This is a bit of a weird format for a story for me (vignettes?), but... frankly speaking, this story fought me quite a lot! More than usual! So I wrote it the best way I felt I could.
> 
> Sorry if the format is disconcerting.
> 
> Anyway, these are a vague assortment of theories about why I think Dedue took four years to come back. The name of the fic comes from the words "Retrograde Amnesia."
> 
> A request from Millenial28 on FFN asking me to write about Dedue's status during the timeskip!


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